


Odd and even

by AnythingButPink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of suicide (for a case), mention of rape, post-Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A matter of mistaken identity, misunderstanding, minions and meddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd and even

The doorbell rang, a single stab, maximum pressure, just less than half a second, startling John awake on the leather sofa. He groaned, rolled over and slowly swung himself into a sitting position.

The cogs of his sleep-addled brain were turning, trying to make sense of the situation.

He had been sleeping on the sofa at - bleary eyes brought a watch face into focus - at 11am because he couldn't sleep at night. Awake or asleep, the hours of darkness were still filled with stomach-churning images of Sherlock falling, Sherlock's broken body in a pool of blood.

The sound was that of a client ringing the doorbell of 221B Baker Street. But there were no more clients. Sherlock had been dead for two years, five months and three days.

The bell rang again. He pushed himself to his feet and descended the stairs to the front door.

***

When John opened the door, the man on the doorstep stepped back in shock. The colour drained from his face, a hand flew to cover his gaping mouth and for a moment John feared he would faint.

"You all right?" he asked.

The man seemed to come to at the sound of John's voice. "Err, yes, fine. You just reminded me of... Odd, it's uncanny. I didn't think you could be really, but, obviously, you're not..." The tumble of words collapsed into silence.

"If you're looking for Sherlock, I'm afraid..."

"No, no," the man interrupted, "I came to find you."

John's brow crinkled in a frown. "Me? Why?"

The man smiled. "Can I come in? It's a bit of a long story."

***

The man, David ("Call me Dave"), stood in the living room casting a disbelieving eye over the decor. He was taller than John, probably 6ft, but fleshier too. A tiny roll of fat curled over the collar of his pink shirt and a slight potbelly strained against the fabric. His suit was expensive and beautifully tailored, yet he managed to wear it like an 18-year-old Twocker in a cheap court suit. His blond hair was styled boyishly with thinning wisps swept in a fringe across his forehead. His fingers drummed against his thighs as he waited for John to finish making the tea.

"Here you go," said John, proffering a mug of tea. "Sorry, no biscuits."

Dave's face fell slightly, but he put on a false smile, "Well, I'm sure I won't fade away for lack of one biscuit."

John bit his tongue and turning away, went to sit on the arm of his chair with his own mug of tea. "What can I do for you, Dave?"

Dave sipped at his tea, blanched at the miserly dose of sugar, and sighed. "My husband killed himself seven years ago, Doctor Watson. He leapt from a ferry into the sea near Gozo."

John's features rearranged themselves in an expression of sympathy.

Dave continued, "His body was never found. I hoped for a long time that it was a mistake, and then that at least that he would be found, but nothing."

"You have my sympathies, but I don't see how I can help you," said John

Dave walked to the window, studied Baker Street and returned his attention to John. "As I say, that was seven years ago and recently I applied to have him officially declared dead, but I'm told that's impossible because of you."

"Me! What have I got to do with it?"

"You are the spitting image of my husband and the idiotic government thinks therefore that he must be alive. I mean, superficially the likeness is extraordinary, but no one would think for more than a minute that you could be _him_..."

"Right..." murmured John, a familiar feeling of being almost imperceptibly insulted creeping up on him.

"And, to add insult to injury, apparently some bloody identity thief has emptied his bank account! Though the Home Office chap did say he'd get his best man at Scotland Yard to investigate, so hopefully I'll get the money back."

"Hmm."

"So, I just need you to drop in to the Home Office, prove you're not Odd..."

"What?" interrupted John.

"I said," said Dave condescendingly, "you need to prove to the Home Office that you're not Odd."

"How the hell am I supposed to do that? God knows what this government classes as odd."

Dave shifted impatiently. "Not odd," he hissed, " _Odd_."

John stared at him blankly.

Dave sighed, "His name was Odd. He was Norwegian."

"Oh. Right. Fine. Where do we have to go?"

"Oh, you don't need me there, old chap. Here," he handed John a business card. On thick, creamy card that probably cost the same as the month's rent he owed Mrs Hudson, a stylish serif font gave an address. Scrawled on the back in black ink were the words "Admit the bearer."

"The Home Office chap said to show that and it would get you straight in to him. Anyone would think he were important, instead of some civil service minion." He sniffed. "Will you do it?"

John really didn't want to help the man, but he also wanted nothing more than to get him out of the flat. "Fine," he said, "I'll go this afternoon."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," said Dave, putting the mug down on Sherlock's desk and stepping forward to clap John on the shoulder.

***

**A week earlier**

Long, nut-brown fingers drummed impatiently on the wooden bar, resisting the temptation to rifle frantically through their owner's slicked down hair. He had been chasing his quarry across four continents for several months, acquiring the tan that rendered him almost unrecognisable. His love of dressing up and disguises had been evident from a young age - there had been a time when he would insist on going to bed in his pirate costume - and it was paying off handsomely now.

Everything about him whispered money and power. It suggested playboy and banker and friend of a friend in high places. It wouldn't be enough on its own, but it was a necessary beginning.

He stared across the beach, over the sunbathers and locals, to the forested hills across the bay and the illusory promise of cool shade they offered. He wished he could return to London, but knew that he had burned his bridges in the most spectacular way and that he might never see England again. He wasn't prone to sentiment, but his heart ached as he thought of the pain he had caused the best man he had ever known.

He shut his eyes behind his very expensive sunglasses and let himself wander in one of the more personal rooms of his mind palace, remembering his adventures with his best, and only, friend until the hurt was more than he could bear. He allowed himself a last glance at John Watson sitting in his armchair and opened his eyes. The sight that greeted him had him jumping to his feet, flinging out an arm (and knocking over his gin and tonic) and breathing one word between shocked lips, "John?"

Two seconds later, he was collecting the clues that told him his first deduction was wrong. The face was right, as was the hair and the build, but this man moved with a fluidity that the Army would have knocked out of John if he had ever had it. He was also clearly trying to pick up the ripped, shirtless man at the other end of the bar. No one else seemed to believe John's protestations, but Sherlock knew John wasn't gay. And this man had a Scandinavian accent - Danish or Norwegian at a guess from this distance. Against all the odds, Sherlock had found John's doppelganger on a small Indonesian island, 8000 miles from Baker Street. The only thing more unlikely would have been finding John there.

***

John handed the business card to the young, smartly dressed black man behind the desk. The man's eyes travelled from John's dark blond hair to his tan boots, taking in the checked shirt and jeans along the way. His hand straightened his own dark purple tie and brushed down his lavender shirt, a rebuke that John wasn't remotely interested in challenging. The man picked up the phone, tapped in an extension number and after a moment said, "He's here sir." He listened for a moment and then said, "I'll send him straight up."

As he replaced the handset, he slid the card back across the table to John. "You can go up," he said. "Sixth floor, room 66."

John picked up his "Access All Areas" pass, thanked the man and walked towards the lift.

***

By the time John had navigated through what seemed like miles of carpeted and wood-panelled corridors, punctuated with ornate light fittings and an art collection to rival the Tate, he was starting to feel like Theseus. Finally he found the door marked with two shiny brass 6s and knocked.

He accepted the invitation to enter and was ready to offer the business card as proof of his credentials when he saw who was sitting behind the highly mahogany desk.

"You!" He took a deep breath, pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up. "I have a phone. You have my number. It is how normal people communicate, even…" His voice tailed off for a moment before he pulled himself together. "The point is, you don't need to engineer these ridiculous scenarios when you want to talk to me."

Mycroft spread his hands apologetically. "My dear Doctor Watson, I'm sorry, but the subterfuge was vital. We need our new 'friend' Dave to take everything at face value if my plan is to succeed.

"Your plan? What plan?" asked John in exasperation.

Mycroft gestured elegantly to the chair on John's side of the desk, where a fine bone china mug filled with tea sat on a saucer. "Tea, Doctor Watson?"

"What. Plan?"

"When you are sitting comfortably, I will tell you a story..."

John eyed him with frustration, took a deep breath and sat down.

A slight movement flickered at the edge of Mycroft's lips - a smile or a smirk - it was impossible to say. "Once upon a time, " he said, "a rather lovely young charity worker met the managing director of a private health insurance company. The pair fell in love and, because this was in the days before civil partnerships, they got married in the charity worker's home country, Norway."

"Odd and Dave?"

Mycroft spread his hands to convey 'of course' and continued his story. "However, they lived in London, because that's where Dave lived and worked and as Odd was quickly to realise, what Dave wants, Dave gets. If needs be, he takes what he wants by force."

Mycroft paused and took a sip of his own tea.

"We can only guess at some of the events that took place in their two-year marriage, others are documented or hinted at in medical records and police logbooks. We do know that Odd was seen jumping from the side of a ferry while the pair were on holiday in Malta. His body was never recovered and there had been no trace of him for seven years."

"Hang on, what do you mean 'had'? Is this something to do with him being my doppelganger?"

Mycroft pushed a thin, patient smile on to his face. "I say 'had' because it turns out he was spotted on the Indonesian island of Flores a week ago."

"What does any of this have to do with me?"

"You, Doctor Watson, are going to put Odd beyond the reach of his unpleasant spouse forever."

"What the hell does that mean Mycroft?"

Mycroft smiled. "Not what you think it means."

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a heavily stuffed manila envelope. "New passport, driving licence, birth certificate, bank account - which coincidentally contains all the savings he had to leave behind, everything he needs to cement a new life. All I need is for you to deliver it to him." Mycroft pushed a smaller envelope across the desk too.

"Why me? Haven't you got minions for this sort of thing?"

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I am **not** one of your minions."

"You are a man who likes to see justice done though. This way you get to help a victim of domestic abuse and stop his abuser profiting from his crimes. And besides, Indonesia's lovely and Flores is a fascinating place, home of the hobbits you know...”

"You are insane."

"And you are booked on the 11pm flight out of Heathrow tonight. In fact, your suitcase should be here any..." His sentence was interrupted by a knock on the door and a stocky sandy-haired man walked in, wheeling John's luggage behind him.

"Thank you, Max," said Mycroft.

Max nodded and left the room.

"I'll let Mrs Hudson know you won't be in for tea."

John glared at Mycroft. "Just say, for argument's sake, that I fly to Flores, find Odd and deliver your little care package. What am I supposed to tell Dave?"

"Oh, don't worry about Dave. Quite apart from the fact that we have CCTV showing you in two different places at the same time making it impossible for us to rule out the possibility that Odd is now living in, Manchester I think it is, he's going to be quite busy next week. HMRC are going to have a little dig around in his finances and I have a feeling they're not going to like what they find."

"You're stitching him up with the taxman?"

"Not at all. He is merely being hoist with his own petard. He dodged his taxes all on his own. I am merely performing my civic duty in alerting the relevant authorities."

John sighed, leaned forward and picked up both envelopes.

"You'll find a little something in there to cover your expenses, details of your hotel reservation; and your passport will be in your suitcase. Max is very good at packing."

John pushed himself upright.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft, uncharacteristically human for a moment. "I do appreciate your help."

John eyed him for a moment and held out his free right hand. Mycroft shook it and smiled. "Good luck."

Now it was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Something tells me I'm going to need it," he said.

***

It was nearly 2am, with more than 24 hours' flying weighing heavy on every fibre of his being, when John closed the door of his hotel room behind the porter. He toed off his shoes, pulled off his clothes and slumped on to the bed. With a moan, he reached for the light switch and plunged the room into darkness. For the first time in months he slept through the night without a single nightmare.

***

He missed breakfast, but came downstairs to find a mid-morning snack buffet laid on for guests. Fortified with food and a truly excellent cup of tea, he headed out of the hotel to get a taxi to Watumita, the village where Odd had been spotted, according to the briefing Mycroft had given him.

***

The bay was beautiful, every cliché of a tropical island turned up to maximum - sun, sand, lush vegetation, jewel-like seas, tanning tourists, beach bar with grass roof. John headed towards the bar in search of shade, a drink and information.

Suddenly a young man showing off his six pack slapped a hand playfully on his arse.

"Excuse me?" said John, wheeling round.

"Ah, sorry," came back an Australian accent, "coulda sworn you were someone else. My mistake." The man grinned apologetically and walked away down the beach.

"I. Am. Not. Gay." muttered John under his breath as he resumed his walk towards the bar.

Behind the bar, a middle-aged man with a deep tan that contrasted freakishly with his snow-white hair beamed broadly at him and pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge. "You finished early today?" He spoke excellent English with a German accent.

"Ah, no," said John. "I've only just started actually."

"Oh," said the bartender, "sorry. I thought you were..."

"...someone else," echoed John. "Yeah, I know."

"What can I get you sir?"

"Tonic and lime please."

John settled on a bar stool, paid for his drink and took a long sip. "That's really very good," he told the bartender.

The man beamed and thanked him.

"You lived here long?" asked John.

"Yeah, about ten years now. Beats Dusseldorf any day I can tell you."

"I imagine it does," John smiled. "I'm John, by the way."

"Bernd," said the man. "Nice to meet you. You here for the diving?"

"Ah. No. More of a dry land man."

"I know what you mean. I tried it once, with Even actually, but it is too claustrophobic for me."

"Even?"

""Yes, that's who I thought you were. He's been working at the dive centre for about three years now. Nicest man you could meet, but I still wouldn't go underwater again."

"Perhaps I should meet him," John laughed lightly, "It's not often you meet your own doppelganger."

"Sure," said Bernd, "stay right there and he'll be along in a while for lunch."

John's stomach twinged. "You do food?"

Bernd grinned. "Of course." He slid a menu along the bar and excused himself to serve a couple at the other end of the bar.

***

Lunch had been delicious. With a second tonic and lime to hand, John was now using the crossword app on his phone to pass the time. He was just tapping in the solution to 1 Across: Decision height, when he heard Bernd say brightly, "Even! At last! There's someone I want you to meet..."

He looked up and no amount of foreknowledge could stop his jaw falling open. The Norwegian looked like he'd stepped out of a cloning booth, albeit having stopped to put on funkier beachwear than the doctor. The hair, the dimples, the laughter lines - were all exactly the same.

As was the shocked expression on his face. John realised he needed to take the initiative. He stuck out his hand, "Hi, I'm John. I'm afraid I've been confusing the locals a little this morning. I can see why now. Can I get you a drink?"

Odd shook his hand slowly and nodded a dumb 'yes'. John used the hand shake to pull the man to a bar stool. Odd sank on to it gratefully.

Bernd placed a bottle of beer in front of the Norwegian, took John's money and disappeared to serve more customers.

***

John had let Odd eat his lunch and finish his first beer before he broached the reason he was on the island.

"Even," he said quietly, "is there somewhere a bit more private we could go?"

Odd winced. "I'm sorry," he said, "I mean I'm flattered, but I don't think I could, not with someone who looks exactly like me. It would be too weird."

"No! I mean. I'm not gay. That's not why I asked. Can you just trust me? There's something I need to tell you."

Even looked doubtful, but nodded his agreement. "Come on," he said, "If we walk along the beach, no one will hear you."

***

John thought the man took it quite well considering. He reassured Odd that Dave had no idea that he was actually alive, let alone where he was, and that the plan was to keep it that way.

"How did anyone know I was here?" he asked.

"I don't know," said John slowly. "The man who sent me said you'd been spotted here, which now I think about it _is_ odd, but what I want to know is how you did it. Faking your own death."

Odd led him to a shady patch at the edge of the beach and sat down. He sighed. "I had told Dave I wanted to leave, get a divorce. He said he would kill me before he let me leave, and I believed him. He had ... hurt me before and that night he beat me and raped me.

"I started to plan. I put away a few sentimental items, family photos and things, in a safety deposit box in my home town of Fredrikstad, and started saving up any money I could. I snuck emergency breathing gear into my luggage for Malta - it weighs just over a kilo - it was no problem. I used cash and fake ID to rent a wetsuit and mask on the island, and put the wetsuit on under my clothes while we were on the ferry. The mask and the cylinder were in the rucksack along with weights to take me down quickly, and dry clothes in a plastic bag. I jumped, I put on the rest of the diving gear and swam to shore. The rest you can probably work out. Since then I've been moving around the world, sometimes I work as a diver, sometimes as bar staff or whatever I can find."

"Blimey," said John.

"Yes," said Odd, "British understatement. One of the few things I miss about your country."

John grinned at him. "Well, my friend in high places wants to help you. He's set up a new identity for you, emptied your old savings account into a new one, and - between you and me - got the taxman rummaging through Dave's finances."

Odd laughed and kicked his feet like a toddler in delight.

"When do you want me to drop it all off for you?" asked John, smiling at Odd's happiness.

"How about this evening? I will buy you a proper drink to say thank you. Meet me at the bar at six."

"Okay, but how do I get a taxi back to Maumere in the meantime?"

Odd laughed again, fished a phone out of his pocket and made a call. "He'll be at the bar in ten minutes. We'd better get back."

***

The dusk was warm and violet. Bernd's bar was bustling with customers. Odd had been delighted with the small peek he'd taken at the contents of the A4 envelope and had, as promised, bought John not one but two beers, before making his excuses and taking his new life away to examine in the safety and privacy of his own room.

John relaxed on his bar stool with the last half of his bottled beer and let the happy atmosphere wash around him. The crowd were mostly young - gap-yearers, diving fanatics and honeymooners he guessed - with a smattering of middle-aged travellers to make the demographics more interesting.

People were dancing joyfully on wooden decking that extended from the side of the bar, his fellow drinkers were laughing and chatting. All in all, thought John, there were many worse places he could be peacefully whiling away the hours until his flight home.

***

**The day before**

Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text notification. He paced across the hotel room and snatched it up. There was no message, just a picture of a key to decode the braille alphabet. Sherlock smiled as half the mystery suddenly became clear. The phone vibrated in his hand again and a second picture appeared. It was the reception desk of his hotel.

He slid the phone into his pocket, picked up his door key and ran to reception. "Have you got something for me?" he asked the young woman on duty.

"I'm sorry, sir, what name is it?"

"Richardson," he said impatiently, "Room 312."

She checked the pigeonholes behind her. "Ah, yes, this was delivered just a moment ago for you."

She held out a slim, white envelope for him. His pseudonym was printed on a laser-printed label and stuck neatly on the front. He took it from her swiftly and started walking back to his room. He could feel John, like a Looney Tunes angel figure, tapping an impatient foot on his shoulder for a moment. He stopped, swivelled on his heels, conjured up a brief smile and said "Thank you" to the receptionist. Before she had time to respond, he was off again like the White Rabbit, though worrying at the envelope instead of a pocket watch.

On the walk back to his room he determined that there was nothing of any import to be learned from the envelope itself, so that as soon as he was behind his closed door he could carefully open it and examine the contents. He was not even slightly surprised to pull out a square of thick paper, marked only with a pattern of raised dots.

Sherlock smiled to himself and proceeded to unlock the coded message.

***

John had said goodnight to Bernd and was walking away from the bar when his eye was drawn to two figures talking on the beach. He told himself it was just the talk of doppelgangers and faked suicide messing with his mind, because there was no way the tall, lean man on the right was Sherlock. This man was brown as a nut where Sherlock's skin was as pale as the delicate porcelain cup that Mycroft had served tea in two days before. His hair was slicked back hard making the angles of his head look almost alien, yet those cheekbones were so familiar. He had never met anyone with cheekbones like Sherlock's.

He kept staring at the man, who appeared to be explaining something to his companion, as he made his way towards the main road. The second man, shorter and stockier than the first, was becoming increasingly agitated. John smiled to himself. This man not only shared Sherlock's physiognomy, he clearly also shared his 'unique' people-handling skills. As he went to turn away, he caught the moment when the short man drove his fist into the taller man's abdomen.

He turned and ran towards the pair, launching himself on to the attacker's back and pulling him to the ground. The man swore and tried to wrestle free, but John had his arm locked around his neck and was already manoeuvring himself into a stronger position.

John shifted himself so that he could restrain the man facedown with his arms pulled up behind his back and, panting, looked around for the first man. He was kneeling in the sand, hands on his thighs, coughing and panting for breath.

"You okay?"

The man's voice was ragged with pain and shortness of breath, "Fine, thank you. You have very fast reflexes, Mr...?"

"Watson, Doctor John Watson. And you are?"

He saw the man freeze, even in the darkness. He heard the catch of breath, over the gentle washing of the sea and the panting of the man beneath him.

"Richardson," said the man, "John Richardson."

John stared at him. The lights of the beach bar did little more than create shadows here. And anyway what he was imagining was impossible. He had seen the fall. He had seen the body. He had seen the blood. He had felt the lack of pulse himself. Besides, Sherlock had had no reason to fake his own death. Moriarty was already dead. He shook his head to dislodge the thoughts.

"What are we going to do with him then?" John gestured to his prisoner.

"Oh, don't worry about him. Someone will be along to pick him up any minute..."

"Hello again, Doctor Watson."

John looked up. Max was smiling down at him. "We'll take it from here. Boys!" Two well-built men stepped forward and took hold of the man, pulling him to his feet, handcuffing him and walking him towards the road.

"Do you have it?" Max asked the lean man.

"Yes." He held out something small and shiny. Max pulled a clear plastic bag from his pocket and held it for the man to drop the object into. It looked like a thumb drive.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. Do you want a lift back to the hotel?"

John's head jerked up, he narrowed his eyes and threw a hard, fast punch at his best friend's jaw.

Sherlock reeled backwards, clutching his face with one hand and indicating to Max with the other that he shouldn't touch John. "No, thank you, Max. John and I have some catching up to do."

John stared down at him, breathing hard, then trekked away up the beach into the utter darkness.

***

A figure stood at the water's edge, agitated fists clenching and unclenching, gaze apparently fixed out to sea.

"John." Sherlock stopped walking, not because he feared another assault, but because for once he wanted to use his vast repository of knowledge about human behaviour to make things right with his friend.

When he started to speak it was in a quiet, soft, entirely unSherlock-like tone of voice. "I'm sorry," he paused for a long moment.

"I'm sorry that I deceived you and that I couldn't tell you that I had deceived you. I know you think I don't feel anything, but that isn't true. I feel everything acutely. Every emotion is like that annoying tag in your shirt that scratches your neck, or being trapped on the Tube on a hot day, or having a loud, dull person on the phone next to you.

"So I do whatever I can to turn down the volume on my feelings. And I do it very successfully. You would probably say I do it too well. But the point is I do have feelings and when Moriarty told me that he would have you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade murdered if I didn't kill myself, there was no other choice. How could I live with myself if I let the three most important people in my life die? So I chose exile for me and grief for you. It was the logical choice. I made it with both my heart and head."

He waited. John's chin dropped on to his chest, his fingers now twitching rather than making fists.

"You could have mentioned it before now though," he said, voice choked with emotion.

The showy-off tone was back in Sherlock's voice now. "Technically, I could have told you four months ago, yes. Until then I was chasing down every member of Moriarty's network and ... stopping them." He paused, and the apologetic voice returned. "By then, I thought it would have been selfish to tell you. I knew you would be angry and hurt and I didn't see what good could come of it."

John spun and around to face him. "You thought I'd have got over it by now. Is that what you're saying?"

"Well, yes. I am aware I'm not always the easiest person to be around."

"So if Mycroft hadn't sent me here on an errand, you would have let me go on thinking you were dead?"

"Yes. It seemed the kindest thing to do."

John shook his head and started walking away from the waves. "Look at you. Smartest man in any room and still not a bloody clue!"

"Then tell me John. What is it that I'm missing?"

The words caught in John's throat, but he enunciated every one anyway, "You're my best friend. I love you. I thought I had watched you die."

He sighed. "You don't just get over that sort of thing Sherlock. It would have haunted me into my own grave."

"I _am_ sorry, John. Though not about the saving your life and Mrs Hudson's life bit. That bit I will never be sorry about."

"What about Lestrade?"

Sherlock huffed, "All right, I'm not sorry for saving Lestrade either. Now, do you want to hit me in the face again or are we done?"

John narrowed his eyes in thought, flexing the fingers of his right hand. "Nah, we're done. You can buy me a drink though and tell me what the hell you're doing here, though if the answer is hunting for hobbits I will seriously reconsider that offer of punching you..."

***

Mycroft leaned back in his seat and smiled at Max's report. Everything had gone as planned. Sherlock had tracked down the man selling British secrets to the highest bidder and, more importantly, caught him red-handed. Odd had everything he needed for a new life. And John could finally put his grief behind him. As could Sherlock. Serendipity had given him all the cards he needed to tie up a large bundle of loose ends. Sherlock seeing John's doppelganger on Flores and mentioning it in his weekly report, Dave choosing to seek to declare his husband dead, Max accidentally on purpose spilling the beans...

He closed the folder, dropped it onto the table and picked up his tumbler of whisky. He raised a silent toast 'to Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson' and wondered what their next adventure might be.


End file.
